


Crawl Into Your Atmosphere

by brynnmck



Category: American Idol RPF, David Cook (Musician)
Genre: M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-11
Updated: 2009-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:12:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Neal could swear he can feel the charge building in the air, lightning caught between clouds, tied up and bursting with the need to strike.  It’s been strung up for going on an hour now and still no rain; there’s no bigger cocktease than a gathering storm.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crawl Into Your Atmosphere

The wind wails around the bus like a lost soul, rattling the windows and sending pebbles pinging against the metal skin. Neal shifts in his bunk. He could swear he can feel the charge building in the air, lightning caught between clouds, tied up and bursting with the need to strike. It’s been strung up for going on an hour now and still no rain; there’s no bigger cocktease than a gathering storm.

It would be writing weather if he had the time, and it might even be fighting weather if it were five years ago and he had the right combination of bar and booze, but he doesn’t have any of those things, just the steady pressure nudging underneath his skin. He rolls out of his bunk, coming down hard just for the momentary grounding thump of his boots against the floor. In the common area, the rest of the band is gathered around the table, playing Scrabble while the driver finishes his lunch.

Dave and Andy both look up as he comes in; Neal gives Andy a quick half-shrug to telegraph _it’s cool_ and then zeroes in on Dave. Dave, who's got his tongue caught in the corner of his mouth, and who's wearing a blue plaid shirt with snaps all the way down the front. Neal’s fingers itch.

"Hey," he says, trying for casual. "Can I, uh—?" He jerks his head to the side, toward the door.

Dave’s eyes narrow, assessing him, and then go just exactly the shade of dark and hot that Neal was hoping for. _Yes._ The energy is thrumming against Neal’s nerve endings now, the kind of visceral, lizard-brain hum of standing too close to a speaker. Dave tips his Scrabble tiles over. "Okay, guys, I’m out."

Kyle gives Neal a betrayed look. "Aww, shit, Tiemann, I was winning," he complains.

"Sorry, Peekaboo," Dave says. He reaches out to ruffle Kyle’s hair, glancing away just long enough to make sure he doesn’t poke Kyle in the eye before locking his gaze right back to Neal’s. "You can kick my ass some other time." Out of the corner of his eye, Neal can see Monty shaking his head, mock-rueful.

When Dave opens the door, the wind howls around the edges like it’s pissed off at the extra obstacle. Dave braces himself, keeping it open long enough for Neal to follow him down the stairs, falling maybe-accidentally forward, his hardening cock against the curve of Dave’s ass as they both balance on the threshold. Dave’s fingers tighten on the rubber of the door’s weather-seal.

"We're rolling in twenty," Andy reminds them.

"Got it," Neal answers. There’s grass underneath his feet now; he lets the wind batter the door shut behind him.

The rest stop is deserted except for their bus, and it looks like it’s been that way for a while—apparently the road-sign that said _FREE COFFEE_ had been lying, if the abandoned and tipped-over tureen is any indication. There are styrofoam cups skipping across the grass like some bastard hybrid of snowball and tumbleweed. Neal’s not even a hundred percent sure where this is, exactly. Somewhere where the South starts to bleed into the Midwest, somewhere with a lot of empty space and shifting grey sky and the names of the crops stuck carefully on to the fencelines. The air is heavy with held-back rain, the wind shoving its way underneath the collar of his shirt, warm and wild.

Dave’s got his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched. "Fuck."

Neal considers going for the easy joke, but easy is exactly what he’s _not_ looking for right now, so he just says, "C’mon," and nudges Dave’s shoulder with his. Dave lets himself be nudged, back toward the small, stubborn stand of trees that are clinging to the edge of the rest stop property, a stupid human attempt to divide nothing from more nothing. As soon as they’re more or less hidden from view from the bus, Neal shoves Dave hard up against one of the trees. The bark scrapes teasingly against Neal's knuckles as Dave’s breath hisses out of his lungs. 

Dave cocks his head. "You okay, Doctor?" he asks, an edge of real concern riding underneath the nickname and the deliberately light tone. In the shelter of the trees, the wind is dialed down to bearable.

"I’ll be a lot better after you suck my cock," Neal answers, and he grins wide, lots of teeth, but he lets one of his hands drop down to Dave’s hip and squeeze briefly.

The reassuring contact is all it takes for the worry-line on Dave’s forward to smooth out, leaving nothing in his expression but challenge and anticipation. He relaxes back against the tree with a smug smile curving his lips. "So you think it’s gonna be that easy?" he says. His hips come forward, just enough for the hint of friction before he pulls back again, and it’s all Neal can do to keep from driving against him. But that’s not the game. "You say kneel, I say how low?" His tongue drifts out to slide along the inside slope of his bottom lip.

Neal lets his voice drop down into the register he knows drives Dave insane, the harsh rasp of smoke and lust, the promise of what’s next. "Pretty much." Sure enough, Dave’s eyelids flutter, barely perceptible, and his mouth goes just the slightest bit more slack. Neal can’t help it: he has to touch. Just the pad of his thumb inside Dave’s mouth, resting on the slick heat of his tongue, distorting the pretty shape of his lips. His beard is soft underneath Neal’s index finger.

Dave closes his lips and sucks, once. Hard.

_"Fuck,"_ Neal half-groans, and ducks forward to seal his mouth to Dave's. It’s rough and sloppy and Dave moans as Neal drags his thumb out of the way, leaving a damp trail along Dave’s jaw. Neal lets himself sink into the kiss for a long, hungry moment, catching Dave’s tongue between his teeth just to hear Dave make that small, helpless sound low in his throat. Then he pulls back, leaving Dave panting.

"Fifteen minutes," Neal reminds him. "You think you can manage that, Heartthrob?"

Dave raises an eyebrow. "If you’re not shooting down my throat—" and fuck, that’s not fair, Neal can feel his cock pulse with pre-come just from that—"in five, I’ll haul your gear for a week."

"Done." The word comes out hoarse, and there’s that self-satisfied grin again, but Neal just grabs a handful of Dave’s shirt and yanks, propelling him around till their positions are reversed, Neal’s back against the tree and Dave standing between his splayed legs. Neal makes a show of checking his watch. "Four fifty-nine, four fifty-eight, four fifty-seven…"

"Asshole." Neal catches the lightning flash of Dave’s smile—the half-rueful, half-delighted, _fine-you-got-me_ smile that seems to break across his face whether he wants it to or not—and feels a tug somewhere behind his sternum, call and answer. Then Dave is on his knees and yanking open Neal’s belt buckle, popping the button on his jeans, and Neal can't feel anything outside the sudden sharp, fierce spike of want that bursts through him.

Neal’s wearing his travel jeans, which fortunately aren’t nearly as tight as his show jeans; fortunate, because Dave manages to get them open and Neal’s cock out of his boxers in about eight seconds flat, which in Neal’s show jeans would probably have injured them both. But then he pauses, his face pressed to the juncture of Neal’s pelvis and thigh, Neal’s cock hard and leaking against his cheek, and he just… _breathes_ there. Neal holds out as long as he possibly can—pathetically short time, but fuck it, he’s not the one on the clock, here, and he can carry his own fucking gear—before he sinks one hand into the hair at the back of Dave’s neck and pulls.

"Come on," he mutters, "come on, suck me," and Dave moans, the vibrations buzzing against Neal’s skin, and licks a long stripe up Neal’s cock.

Neal’s head thumps back against the tree, just hard enough for a vivid flare of pain, bringing all his senses sharp. "Yeah," he pants. He can feel Dave’s mouth close around him, all that smooth, wet heat, those perfect cocksucking lips. The calluses on his fingers are the hint of friction around the base of Neal’s dick. _"Yes."_

Dave starts sucking him in earnest, hard and fast, and he knows all Neal’s buttons by now, all the twists and slides to make him burn. But it’s not _quite_ perfect, not yet.

"Touch yourself," Neal demands roughly, and Dave falters for a second, eyes closing as he lets out a desperate, incoherent sound around Neal’s cock. "Do it," Neal urges. "Jack yourself off, I want to see it."

Dave makes another hungry noise and obeys, fumbling at the button of his jeans. He takes his mouth off of Neal’s dick long enough to lick his own palm thoroughly; Neal shivers with the cool rush of air and the sight of Dave’s tongue sliding along his fingers. Then Dave reaches down and Neal has to bite down hard against the inside of his cheek to keep from coming at the way Dave shudders and jerks when his hand touches his own cock.

"God, Neal," he gasps. "I—" He tips forward, glassy-eyed, open mouth searching for Neal’s skin. Neal cups his other hand around the curve of Dave’s jaw, under his ear, guiding him gently but firmly until Neal’s buried in his mouth again, nudging at the soft skin at the back of his throat. Neal starts to thrust, slow, steady, while Dave works out his own rhythm below.

"Fuck, I love the way you take it," Neal grates out, fascinated by the slide of his cock in and out of Dave’s mouth.

Dave hums and looks up at him, eyes wide and unguarded like there’s no part of him Neal can’t see, can’t have, and it’s fucking _humbling_ , that kind of trust. But that’s the way Dave is, the way he’s always been with Neal, from songs to sex to stupid jokes and everything in between: so devastatingly _open_ that Neal’s never had any resistance, never had any choice but to fall right in and give Dave everything.

They both pick up the tempo by instinct, rhythms tangled together, driving hard toward the finish. Still, it catches Neal off-guard when Dave stiffens and then shudders again and then chokes a little around Neal’s cock, coming onto the ground at Neal’s feet. He pulls Neal with him, just like always: Neal’s vision goes bright and blurry Technicolor as he gasps and empties helplessly into Dave’s mouth.

Dave’s barely finished swallowing before he flails out vaguely with his watch arm. "Four forty-seven," he slurs hoarsely, slumped against Neal’s thigh, and it could be true, it could be bullshit; either way, Neal tips his head up to the slate-colored sky and laughs.

Laughing, too, Dave tucks them each away, then half-climbs clumsily up Neal’s body and kisses him, slow and sweet and long like they’ve got all the time in the world, like all he wants to do for the rest of his life is make out lazily with his best friend up against some indeterminate tree at some indeterminate rest stop in the middle of an indeterminate state. And Neal sure as hell lets him, because he might be kind of a control freak but he’s not a complete moron. Eventually Dave eases back with a pleased little hum and one final, playful nip at Neal’s jawline.

"Feel better?" he asks.

Neal grins. It feels like his bones and muscles have dissolved into warm maple syrup. "Yeah, I feel great, as long as I don’t have to walk anytime soon."

Dave _tsks_ , suddenly all mock-annoyance. "Dude, how many times do I have to tell you, I am not carrying you over the threshold," he insists. "It’s an archaic, barbaric tradition and I’m not—"

Neal just shakes his head. "Freak." Dave’s eyes are bright and creased at the corners, because as always, he thinks he’s fucking hilarious. Sometimes he’s right. Neal smiles at him and lets his thumb rub back and forth against the bare skin of Dave’s side, just above the waistline of his jeans. "What about you? You good?"

"Mmmm." Dave leans forward to rest his forehead in the curve of Neal’s neck, letting the rest of his body follow until he’s draped over Neal like some kind of sleepy, junk-food-devouring Snuggie. Neal can feel one of the snaps of Dave’s shirt digging into his chest where is own shirt is unbuttoned; damn, he forgot about that, that he wanted to feel and hear those snaps popping apart under his fingers. _Later_ , he thinks, with a slow, shivering slide of lazy anticipation, like lying in bed on the first morning of summer vacation. His eyelids seem to have shut at some point, and he lets himself have a couple more deep breaths in the self-imposed darkness, there with the wind wrapped around their little shelter and the rhythmic expansion and contraction of Dave’s chest against his. Then, "Okay," he says finally, reluctantly, "we should go back."

Dave doesn’t move. "What’re they gonna do, leave without us?" he mumbles into Neal’s collarbone.

"Well," Neal muses, "they’ve got a drummer and a bassist, and Skib can cover guitar _and_ vocals, so. Technically…"

"Shit, you’re right." Dave sighs heavily and levers himself back until he’s carrying his own weight again. "Note to self: be less replaceable."

"Oh, Jesus." Neal rolls his eyes. "Save the fishing for your fans, Cook, I’m not biting." But he slings an arm around Dave’s neck, pulling him in for something between a hug and a headlock. And if that also turns out to be a convenient handle by which to start dragging him back toward the bus, well, Neal can be a multitasking motherfucker when he puts his mind to it.

Dave makes an incoherent grumbling sound and burrows closer as they make their way back into the open air. They stumble over each other's feet. "False advertising," Dave says. "American Idol. I thought they said American _Idle_." The pun is crystal clear from his tone, but he adds anyway, "Like, i-d-l-e. Get it? Idol? Idle?"

Neal sighs. "Do I get it, or is it funny?"

"Because it’s a homonym," Dave goes on, one finger jabbing into Neal’s side for extra emphasis.

"Remind me why I let you suck my dick again, poindexter?" Neal wonders.

"Less than five minutes," Dave points out smugly. "So you can carry your own gear, bitch."

"Yeah, yeah. Like I want you fucking up my system anyway." They’re almost at the bus now. Though the darkened windows, Neal can just barely make out Kyle’s shape, backlit, hand moving back and forth next to his mouth in the international sign for "blowjob." Awesome.

"Besides," Dave continues, "you love me. You know it."

The air smells like rain and grass and open space, and Neal breathes it in, feels the echo of landscape opening up inside him. He tightens his arm around Dave’s shoulders. "Yeah," he says. "You’re fucking right I do."


End file.
